5. ITALIA/RUTHENIA 15th Century #5
“Wait, Romani!” Abriana called out, forgetting to keep a quieter tone to avoid rousing the others sleeping upstairs.
“I need to share one last part of my vision with you; then, you will know everything I do. One year from now, you and Aeneas will confront the dark sorceress at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains, specifically in the region of the Carpathian Rus, within the Temnyi Lis forest.”
“I know it,” the Romani witch declared with sparked interest.
“While she moves around Rus Land frequently, she is trapped within its borders, imprisoned by a powerful spell cast by Hecate herself millennia ago. A punishment for the immortal beast’s hubris in thinking to spread her foul influence and insatiable appetite for human flesh to the lands of Italia and Greece.
“I know of no mortal witch or sorcerer, mystic or mage, more powerful than her. None to my knowledge has ever survived an encounter. Perhaps only the gods may best her, as Hecate did. Why the goddess did not simply destroy the creature—! Well, the ways of the ancients are not for us to question. Praise Hecate.”
Yes, praise Hecate. The Romani witch grinned, not out of bravado or ego, but in recognition of his past experiences with immortals and in resignation to the deific events he could never seem to avoid.
“I have fought against terrible odds before, Abriana. Admittedly, I have not always won, but to protect my love, I would battle gods—and I have. Now, does this dark sorceress have a name?”
Abriana tightly wrapped her arms around herself and shivered like someone had just walked over her grave. “She does, but to speak it aloud is something one should never do. Only in a whisper will I reveal it.”
“Then tell me in whatever way you choose, good lady.”
The Romani witch stood beside the house’s front door with bated breath to hear the name of the seemingly undefeatable foe. The one he would have to fight and defeat for the sake of his love, a treasure worth more than all the riches in the world, more than the most extraordinary magic.
More than his own life.
“The witch’s name is—”
As Abriana spoke, her whispered tone did little to muffle her fear, not for herself, but for the Romani witch.
“—Baba Yaga, the Cannibal Hag.”
The Romani witch’s eyes grew wide, a mixture of recognition and dread cascading over his comely features.
This witch’s name was known to children far and wide.
It had reached him as a boy travelling with his Romani caravan.
To say this hag’s name was a powerful tool used to keep young ones in line and prevent misbehaviour.
Baba Yaga ate children; her favourites were those with poor manners and a lack of respect.
“Baba Yaga!” the Romani witch gasped. “I have never encountered her, not in over a thousand years of lives, and I have travelled far and wide, but her legend is undeniable.
She is ancient, a force of nature. I should have guessed this when you mentioned the Carpathian mountains and the forests of the Rus.
I have always known to stay clear of them for this very reason.
“Bless Lady Fortuna for granting me luck. In searching for Aeneas, I have never needed to traipse about the lands of Ruthenia. How did we ever get ourselves involved with this hag now?”
Abriana had no answer, for her vision had provided none.
“The Wheel of Destiny is most likely to blame,” the Romani witch snarled. “Regardless of what lies ahead, I must step boldly forward and accept my future with a heart full of hope and devoid of fear. I will not exist in this world without my Aeneas. I cannot. I must find him.
“With all your witchcraft at my disposal to add to my own, sweet Abriana, I can only hope I am now strong enough to defeat the hag and avert your vision’s terrible foretelling. Whatever I have to do.”
Abriana, still holding on to those three words that she heard in her mind, felt in her heart— I am here —she could not ignore what the Romani witch had said: With all your witchcraft.
Only, he did not possess all, for there was one spell left.
A spell of ultimate darkness, one she had refused to teach Pietro, refused even to let him know of its existence.
I have no choice. I cannot allow that beast to devour the last of my beloved Pietro.
“Wait for one more moment, Romani,” Abriana requested, her tone filled with anxiety, yet resolved to do what she had to, regardless of the consequences.
Abriana took off her wedding band, a simple gold circle, the most valuable object she owned, at least in the eyes of society, which valued such material riches. That it was given to her by her husband as a token of his eternal love and fidelity was all Abriana ever cared about.
And now that he was gone, it would have taken only an event of this magnitude for her to separate the item from her person.
“This ring? It appears plain and harmless, no? It is so much more. It has been enchanted by—well, who is not important. This ring grants the wielder access to a great power, spanning both this world and beyond.
“Know this! It is the darkest magic I possess. This ring is to be used only as a last resort. If you find yourself overwhelmed, when all else has failed. If none of the magic at your disposal is enough to slay the bitch and death is imminent, take this ring, hold it tightly in your fist, and place it against your chest upon your heart. Then say these words with utter conviction: Che la Grande Oscurità li reclami! [May the Great Darkness claim them!]”
“And then?” the Romani witch asked, his eyes wide with curiosity, unfamiliar with this spell.
“And then you will either be saved or dead.” Abriana kissed the ring, knowing she may never look upon its gold shimmer again, and handed it to the Romani witch. “May Hecate bless you. May Fortuna bring you luck and good fortune.”
“Thank you, Abriana. For everything.”
With a final, heartfelt embrace, the two witches parted ways. One embarked on a perilous quest to find his true love, fated to confront a great evil, while the other stayed behind, guarding more extraordinary secrets.
And one egregious one.
Harnessing the ring’s magic demanded a steep price, for dark magic exacts the heaviest toll of all.
Meanwhile, far away, deep in the heart of the Carpathian Rus, a region dense with oak and birch trees, nestled within the darkest part of the ancient Temnyi Lis forest, Baba Yaga toiled away at her powerful thaumaturgy in isolation: conjurations and spellwork, all a corruption of Hecate’s gift of witchcraft.
The gaunt-faced crone was as thin as a rake with unnaturally long arms and a hooked nose; wisps of stringy white hair, similar to that on her head, adorned her jutting chin. Her mouth was a maw of sharp, pointed teeth of iron, which aided in biting, gnawing, and chomping on human flesh and bone.
As always, the Cannibal Hag, cursed with an insatiable appetite, was absolutely ravenous.
Before entering the Hutsul village, the Romani witch cast the Spell of Friendship upon himself.
It was an approach he increasingly relied on over the centuries to endear himself to the locals in any foreign land.
Now, he stood among the villagers, appearing carefree and blending in; he was just another spectator at the center-of-town festival.
As always, he kept his identity as a witch hidden. The Church’s influence and network of spies were extensive and could be anywhere, even in this minor Ruthenian village.
To the Romani witch’s surprise and delight, the spell quickly proved unnecessary, as the villagers were instantly welcoming; they accepted him, a stranger to their lands, into their midst without prejudice.
Some local elders went so far as to openly and lightheartedly tell him that they possessed a talent for discerning the true nature of a person’s heart and the underlying intentions that guided their actions.
These villagers informed him that they sensed his goodwill and felt he posed no threat while he was among them, no treachery or ill intent.
The Romani witch believed all this banter to be a cryptic reference to some of the villagers’ practice of Zagovory, which included, among many things, healing, divination, and protective rituals. And if he was to believe the legends, even shapeshifting.
Of course, the Hutsul people would never have revealed their magic to him or any stranger.
Not in these times of religious persecution.
The Church held that any mysticism beyond the miracles of God was black magic.
Even the often astonishing results born from the knowledge, study, and experimentation with the secret properties of herbs, gems, and other natural substances were condemned as witchcraft and bedevilment.
The very idea of “white magic” was rejected outright, regardless of whether the mage or witch sought only morally righteous ends through their spells and rituals.
The Hutsuls masked their power behind a cloak of inferred intuition, wisdom, and simple good judgment—even luck.
The Romani witch smiled and nodded at everything he was told, knowingly and silently accepting their strategy of misdirection.
As the Carpathian Mountains loomed majestically in the distance, the Romani witch observed a group of Hutsul men dancing in a circle around a roaring bonfire in the center of the village.
Some men were burly, while others were rail thin, but all were young and healthy, their arms resting on one another’s shoulders, whether tall or short of stature.
The men were all dressed in identical outfits.
Each wore a billowy white shirt embroidered with a simple geometric pattern on the front and bright red wide-legged pants tucked into long brown leather boots.
A black sash was tied around their waists, fluttering as they danced.
Every man had a black hat atop his head, though they varied in textile—some were made of leather while others were crafted from felt.